


Ache

by easystreets



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angst, Bullets Era (My Chemical Romance), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Van Days, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29971575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easystreets/pseuds/easystreets
Summary: Frank takes a pull from his cigarette, already down to the filter, and reminds himself: this won't last forever.
Relationships: Frank Iero & Ray Toro & Gerard Way & Mikey Way
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Ache

**Author's Note:**

> title is from Jawbreaker. pls enjoy!

The van is hot and disgusting and despite Ray's best efforts, there's a fucking carpet of torn magazines and Kleenex and fast food wrappers-- every time Frank steps into the back, which is more often than not, because he's small and malleable and can't stand to hear Gerard cry in his sleep or Mikey take deep anxious breaths before shows or Ray's soft murmurs as he goes over the set list, over and over like it's a fucking prayer to the dead gods of music. It's a cathedral, the van, it's a church with a window that doesn't completely shut and only a tape player for music.

Frank hates it. He really does: he hates showering at truck stops, at gas stations, the way the guys who haul freight and drive Mack trucks stare at him, like he's a fucking circus freak. Gerard would like it, enjoy the way their eyes fell across his body and wordlessly decided he was an other, but Gerard doesn't shower. Frank hates that too, he hates that the smell of sweat and over-full ashtrays is almost comforting to him, can lull him to sleep when he's overtired and jumpy. Frank hates brushing his teeth with a bottle of water and having to lean over Mikey's bony drawn-up knees and spit out the window. He hates having to argue with Ray over what music plays when they're driving, and he hates the way everyone collectively gasps when he merges on a busy highway or changes three lanes at once. Okay, he might like that part. He can romanticize that: how they all might break and shatter in the left lane, how they'd go down but at least it'd be them, together, in an explosion of strung-tight guitar strings and the dexies they take to stay awake.

Whatever. Frank doesn't like to think about how this will end. Maybe they'll make it big. Maybe just Gerard will make it big and leave them all behind to work shitty minimum wage jobs, hiding their tattoos and listening to Top 40 for the rest of their lives. Gerard wouldn't-- he's a fucking sweetheart-- but some seedy label guy could swindle him, make him think that it was better for the rest of the band if he signed a solo deal, and that'd be it, no more band, no more bruised knees from on stage and black eyes from afterward. He still does daydream, though, about what'll happen when they're older and exhausted, when they run out of booze to drink and broken hearts to fix. If they'll hate each other and never talk to each other except awkward chit-chat in grocery stores, or if they'll cling together at shows like lost sentries of the past, remembering that they were so great once, that they really had something for a while there. It's depressing as shit. His brain rots in the back of the van if he's not careful, if he doesn't inhale all the fresh air he can possibly get and call home enough.

Tonight, though, he's alive, tonight things are so fucking good and he never wants to give it up. Not for anything, not for a fucking van with AC and an MP3 player and enough room for them to all stretch their legs out, even Ray. He likes this closeness, likes that he and Gerard are both leaning over the console into the front, likes that he's so near to Ray he can watch the split second where he checks the rear-view before pulling into the gas station, see the way his eyes flit cautiously, can feel Mikey's sleepy-soft breaths on his neck as they park. It's early, it's fucking morning but he's not tired; just the usual watery exhaustion he feels when they've been on the road for what feels like forever.

"Who wants slushies?" Frank asks. It's six am. He hasn't eaten since lunch yesterday, and that was sandwich clippings since apparently no one in Des Moines has heard of vegetarianism and he felt gross about eating the bread that had touched the meat. He really needs a shit ton of corn syrup and sugar in him or he's gonna be a bitch the entire day.

"Me!" Gerard says, elbows him in the side for no other reason than they like touching each other, like the warmth of each other's skin. It's just how all four of them roll, when it's all the comfort you can get from the confines of a dingy hotel room or a shredded seat belt. "Mikey, coke for you?"

"Mmm," Mikey says. He's shoving around in the car for gas money, while Ray fidgets with the pump and mutters something about how in Jersey you don't have to do it yourself.

"Sprite for you Toro," Frank says, because he knows Ray way too well, knows that he bites the straw and doesn't like the cup to be over-full the way he and Gee do, "and if they don't have Sprite get cream soda, and if they don't have that, something orange." Frank says before Ray reminds him, for like the hundredth time.

"Yeah, Frankie," Ray smiles. "Get _food_ food, too."

Frank rolls his eyes, but he reaches into the plastic baggie where they keep their food fund and finds enough for bananas and maybe some over-priced cereal. Gerard twirls around him as they fill up their cups, and snags a box of muffins that expired two days ago, and a baggie of gummy bears, the brand that Frank can actually eat without puking and/or shitting his guts out. There's bread, and peanut butter there too that's on sale, so Frank adds them to their basket. When they're done, Mikey's in the driver's seat, and Ray's stretched out in the back, reading an old issue of Vogue that Gerard likes to collage with.

"Ready?" Mikey asks. "We aren't forgetting anyone?" He twists the keys in the ignition with a little flick of his wrist, and the engine straggles to life.

"Yeah, now you ask," Ray grumbles pissily. Frank reaches from the passenger seat to ruffle his hair until he swats lightly at him. It's clean; another small comfort. "Not once, but twice. In _Idaho_."

"What's so bad about Idaho?" Gerard asks. "Fuck, brain freeze." He kicks his legs against the back of Frank's seat and dramatically lays down in Ray's lap, still drinking from whatever the fuck he filled his cup with that's turned it a lovely shade of fucking beige. His pajama pants are rolling up on his ankles and while Frank's still turned back, he pulls them down so that Gerard isn't cold. "Ow, ow, ow."

Frank passes Mikey his cup and holds it for him while he sips, because Mikey was the last to get his license and the highway still makes him nervy. The cup's cold in his palm and sends a shiver running down his spine. "Idaho sucked."

"Idaho didn't suck that bad," Mikey says, his mouth all red and wet. God, Frank loves his friends so, so much. Sometimes it terrifies him, how connected they all are, how if one of them leaves everything they have will certainly fall and crumble, that they'll be left with nothing. But usually it's just overwhelming, like when they hit a sweet spot in a melody and Gerard's voice is rough and scratchy and Mikey's smiling at him from behind his bass and he's bumping backs with Toro. All-consuming, like he loves them like this but he'd kiss them, do anything they wanted, but whatever he can have is what he needs, is more than good enough. Right now, he just wants to be there, in the passenger seat of a mini-van headed to a million identical clubs, to play their songs and sing their truths, the four of them so in tune with each other that they speak in heartbeats and half-melodies.

"I love you guys," Frank says when it's been a handful of miles. He really does. He doesn't fucking know how any of this will play out, if they'll still be a band in six months or if they'll even still be alive, but he loves them regardless and he wants them to know that, needs them to understand that whatever goes down, he fucking loved his band.

"Love you, Frankie," Gerard says easily. His voice sounds like a daydream, like a lullaby. "This is so--so _magical_. Being a part of whatever we've got going on. I don't know, it's just--"

"It feels like we're really part of something." Ray agrees, and Frank can hear the fucking smile in his voice. "Really fucking part of something."

"Do you ever wonder what will happen?" Frank says, stumbling a little because he knows they'll understand what he means and it's fucking scary, okay, to wear your heart on your sleeve and have it bleed all over you. To be understood so precisely. "Like, do you guys just ever think ahead and it's like, what the fuck," Frank says, laughs shakily.

"It's okay," Mikey says, reaching out and patting Frank's arm. His hand is so soft, and Frank grabs it tightly so that he can feel the familiar thrum of Mikey's pulse.

"Don't worry about the band." Ray says. "Whatever happens, we'll be there. You know that."

"Yeah, don't worry about the future or any of that shit. It's not up to you. It's not up to any of us." Gerard says, reaching from behind to card his fingers through his hair. "I mean it," he tugs, a little harshly. "Don't."

"Ow, fuck." Frank says. He's pretty sure Gerard's trying to braid his hair. "Okay. But you guys are happy with the way things are going? You'd be happy if we didn't make it big?"

"Are you fine with it?" Ray asks, his voice serious.

"Well, yeah." Frank says, squinting at the sunlight. "I'd be fine playing in rec center basements the rest of my life. As long as I'm playing," he says, and he doesn't say _as long as I'm playing with you guys_ , but he doesn't have to, because they all already know.

"Is everyone else fine with it?" 

"Yeah," Gee and Mikey both say. Ray laughs a little at that, and Frank pretty much knows things are okay, because his laugh is as good as a promise.

"Take a nap, dude," Mikey says, his eyes scanning the road. "Y'look so stressed."

"Do you want my blanket?" Gerard asks. "The unicorn one?"

"Yeah, Gee." Frank says, reaching back. The blanket smells like cigarettes and sweat and the air fresheners that they hang up even though they don't work, and he wraps it around himself, tilts his head onto the console so that Ray can pat his head and run a comb through it when he thinks Frank's sleeping, so that Gerard can smooth the blanket out on his back and Mikey can keep holding his hand with a tight bony grasp, so that he can keep this memory like a secret carved out harsh in his chest, all sunlight and sugar.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr @easystreetsz if you want to yell at me about mcr! please leave a comment if you liked this... i never have time to write anymore between school and work and other hobbies, so when i get to it makes me very Happy! they are also my secret ot4,,, frerard this frikey that... what happened to geraykeynk???


End file.
